M.I.A.

Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One:

Sydney

As the screen closes with a smack behind John, I hunch into myself and glance around, still uneasy. "He could have at least brought her outside," I mutter.

I stare down at Mia, who's slumped like a forgotten and weather-beaten little ragdoll on the chair. God, just look at her. Look what's he's done to her. "I don't feel bad for killing him," I tell her, wiping at my eyes. "Not at all."

Mia's lips are moving, the peels and sores exaggerating the tiny movements she's managing. I kneel down beside her, trying to understand. "What?"

"Wha, wha," Mia is rasping, her eyes staring upward.

"Water?" I wonder. "Okay. Okay, I'll get you some water." I get to my feet and head toward the kitchen. I try one cabinet and then another, frantic and annoyed that Cutter couldn't use a normal person's layout for his kitchen. I leave door after door open until I finally find a glass. I fill it up in the sink, not bothering to turn it off all the way, and run back to Mia.

I practically fall on top of her and spill half of the water in my attempt to get it to her as quickly as possible.

"Here. Water. Dri—" Something snatches me from behind and hauls me high and wide. I feel the earth leave my feet and the glass leave my hands, feel the air take me into her arms and gravity snatch back at me as the huge body of Cutter summersaults round and about with the stuffed fish on his walls. I land hard, the wind going out of me and my bones feeling like they've all snapped. For a moment, it's as if I stick there and then gravity wins against air and I slide to the floor, taking with me a couple of knife display cases that crash about me so that I land in glass and cold metal.

I can't move; I blink stars. More heavy hands. Cutter hands. I force myself to move, to kick and punch and squirm despite the glass and knives.

All I see are flashes: the 49 on his hat, a chin, my hands, the flash of silver. All I feel is pain, sharp and blunt, hands and glass. And the air in my lungs. And the beating of my heart. And my bleating calls.

A bellow sounds and suddenly there's a flash of white.

The onslaught disappears for an instant, long enough for me to blink my vision clean. John's on Cutter's back, his arms wrapped around his neck. Cutter is spinning, bucking and braying like a bronco. I struggle to my feet, my fingers finding a blade in the glass as my hands lever me up.

John flies away and Cutter spins around, seeing me standing there with a knife. And then it's like a bull and his red cape. He charges and I backpedal, slashing and screaming as I go.

I back into the kitchen, into the table. And then there is nowhere to go before he's on me. Hands are grabbing at the knife like he doesn't care about its slashing bite. I feel it bite into him, feel the blood on my fingers. But I can't look away from those dark, emotionless eyes, wreathed in blood. His fingers steal away the knife. His body bears against me, heavy, suffocating. I punch him. Nothing. He's a brick wall, a house. But he punishes me anyway, grabbing my hair and slamming my head against the table. Once. Twice. Then he drags me up and slams my body hard against the counter.

My feet go out from under me and I collapse, my body incapable of standing because my brain can't seem to figure out which way is up. I can't see straight. There's this horrible ringing in my ears.